1990

I stared at Santa Monica Boulevard.

Crowds of men populated the steamy

Sunday morning sides of the street.

Faint sound of a marching band

 ” I Am What I Am “

My inpatient nerves

Were being fried by the sun.

Why wasn’t Scott standing beside me?

Died of AIDS a year ago 1989

Our fifteen-year annual marching rite.

His death made him invisible.

My throat constricted as the APLA

and Shanti floats breezed by.

“It’s Raining Men”

 I hustled for shade

Leaned against the wall.

Bricks dug into my back.

Pride wasn’t working for me.

Judy Garland whispered in my ear,

“Forget Your Troubles, Come on Get Happy.”   

As the parade wound to a halt,

I felt a pinch from behind.

 It was my friend Charlie.

Another widower that saved me

From a grieving support group.

Charlie would protect

The massive grave of numbness.

Our embrace erupted into

A volcano of blissful tears.

We formed a cocoon.

Our grip silenced the noise.

In a flash,

Swarming guys were following the last float.

Leaving the scraps of politics behind

Mobilizing towards the festival.

Gay carnival fair celebrated dance

 Charlie said,

 “Should we go to the festival?”

 Scott would want me to enjoy and

 Not wallow in loss.

“Yes, my friend.

 We need to dance away our damaged lives.”